Not Good Enough

I'm 14. I started self-harming at the age of 12. For as long as I can remember, nothing but perfection has been expected of me. I was the little girl who could read at age one, and solve maths before pre-school. I was supposed to be perfect, and I believed that was achievable. I had a good relationship with my mother and stepfather, and my dad visited regularly. Everything was fine. When I was 10 years old my dad stopped coming to see me. When I was 11, my father stopped calling me. He'd make the necessary "happy birthday" wishes and christmas chats, but he wasn't there really. It was out of politeness that he kept any contact with me at all. At age 12 my dad was drunk on my birthday. His words were slurred but dripping with truth and I had to ask him while I had the chance, "Why do you hate me, daddy?" He told me I reminded him of my mother. He told me how he hated her. He told me I'm not good enough to be his. And I believed him. Why wouldn't I? I was depressed for days after my birthday. My mother thought me to be ill, as I refused to eat nor leave my room. I didn't tell her what my father had said. I didn't tell her that he called. I was writing a song and, deep in thought, began biting my thumb. I have extremely sharp teeth which slashed through the skin almost immediately. When I realized I was bleeding all I could do was stare at the wound before pressing my red print onto the side of my page. I keep that page folded in a little purple fabric bag on he top shelf of my closet. The only way I could explain how I felt was: better. The voice that had been eating away at my core with horrible accusations finally silenced and I was free from myself. Every time the deep cut on my thumb began to heal, I bit it open again. There's a small circular scar embedded into my skin forever now. I began biting my wrists, leaving black bruises and red cuts which I hid with pretty bracelets every day. As the year went on the voice in my head grew louder, only to be silenced by deeper and more painful ways of harming myself. "You're fat," It said, "You're ugly" "You're unwanted" "You aren't good enough" For every insult I made I added another scar. I learned how to remove the blade from my razor as the voice began to scream and multiply. I stopped eating. For days or weeks at a time I would have nothing in my system but water. Empty is clean. Empty is strong, I would tell myself. I took pills to give my body the vitamins it needed without adding fat to my stomach. I felt like I could fly. Age 13, my pajamas didn't cover my scars and my mother discovered just how broken I was. I stopped cutting my wrists (Only my upper thighs would I destroy) and I began eating. Eventually I even stopped cutting. For six months my body was clean and I was fat and "healthy". I relapsed in november, on my birthday again, when my father called and said he couldn't wait to see me graduate college next year. He couldn't even remember my age. I reminded him I was only 14 and his remark was "Well you look mighty big and tall. Make sure you're not eating too much chocolate like your mother." Mother wasn't even overweight. She's gorgeous. I stopped eating again, and my wrist became my ease, my blade a paintbrush. I am more careful now, hiding the scars above my pelvis and under bracelets and jeans. The voices in my head now scream in my ears and wrap themselves around me, pulling my stomach so it is fat and round. I want to cut off everywhere my disembodied torturers have touched me. I want to float myself high enough so that if I fall I will die. I want to be good enough, but nothing at all.
breakmetoday breakmetoday
May 17, 2012